MG13
by Mr. Nobody
Summary: What were the last moments of life like in Gracey Manor? A first person account of the highly unfortunate accurences which take place in the mansion.
1. Preface

Annabel Lee

By Eddy Poe, 1849

_It was many and many a year ago,  
In a kingdom by the sea,  
That a maiden there lived whom you may know  
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;  
And this maiden she lived with no other thought  
Than to love and be loved by me._

I was a child and she was a child,  
In this kingdom by the sea;  
But we loved with a love that was more than love-  
I and my Annabel Lee;  
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven  
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,  
In this kingdom by the sea,  
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling  
My beautiful Annabel Lee;  
So that her highborn kinsman came  
And bore her away from me,  
To shut her up in a sepulchre  
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,  
Went envying her and me-  
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,  
In this kingdom by the sea)  
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,  
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love  
Of those who were older than we-  
Of many far wiser than we-  
And neither the angels in heaven above,  
Nor the demons down under the sea,  
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul  
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams  
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;  
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes  
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;  
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side  
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,  
In the sepulchre there by the sea,  
In her tomb by the sounding sea.


	2. MG13

MG13

What have I done? All these years: I thought I could reach my departed father, but lately it is becoming increasingly often that I add another name to the, already long, list of dead people to contact. Madame Leota was supposed to help. Her psychic abilities are evident, but with every nightly séance, all I receive are unwanted wanderers. Leota calls them "static" like on the radio, but I'm thinking that it's not an accident that they are here.

But this house... this house. I know now that Lilian was right. Oh, Lilian: My darling, my darling, my life and my bride. Why couldn't I have listened to her when she was alive? She knew things I didn't. She knew that we should have left this house; left everything and moved back to New England. I only thought she didn't like New Orleans because it was far from her family. If only I had known then what I know now. If I had known how many lives this wretched place had taken. I found her research. I read, if my memory serves me, nine-hundred-ninety-five deaths on these ungodly grounds.

I sit, now, in the library with the only company being the cold, marble busts of the architect, builder, and original owner of the house and his wife. Their stern stares aiding little comfort in the dreary room. My only confidant, Pinot Grand Effiléer, lies, half drunk, on the table beside me.

All of my servants have left by now. The cook, the gardeners, the maids, the house keeper, the chauffeur; all of them. They will no longer stay in the house, no matter how much I raise their salaries. I could act as the owner before me had: I could have locked them in their rooms, letting them vainly pound on the doors with screams of agony and anguish to be let out as I walk up and down the hallway, jingling the keys. I am not that heartless. Besides, it still wouldn't have solved my problems. It didn't his. I hear that the unending clamor expired his sanity and he jumped off of the second story veranda; right between the second and third neo-Greek pillar.

At least I still have Rodney, my one living friend who is also my butler. He is in his room, now, probably trying to memorize another one of Poe's works. Oh, how he enjoys the short stories and poetry of the new author.

Aside from Rodney, this house still has one more living occupant. Madam Leota has never even once considered leaving this place. The deaths of so many loved ones, my loved ones, has not even phased her thoughts. She is still in her séance parlour. In fact, I think I can hear her incantations, now, although I dare not utter what she says aloud or even write it down for fear of what just might occur. But, then again, I might have better luck reaching my beloved. I do not need much time with her: just enough to finally tell her how much I love her. I did read, in one of my multitudes of books on the occult and séances, that "a strong emotional bond is more likely to bring about a connection between the deceased and living then a public séance."

My decision is made. I rise from my chair, spilling the favored drink upon the floor, staining the throw-rug. This matters not anymore. My mind is too full with thoughts of closure and renewal; of conversation points and the future. I already know which book to retrieve from the shelf, for I was the one to place it there after to-night's séance. It is the book with no title: the red, leather-bound book with merely a silhouette of a raven pressed upon the cover. "No," came an almost unreal cry as I reach for the book. It almost sounded like... Lillian. I pull the collection of parchment from the shelf and a shiver runs down my spine. I hear a scream. Placing the book upon the table, where the wine once was, I sit down. Did I really just hear a scream?

My thoughts are answered as I hear footsteps racing towards my person. The door bursts open by the force of Rodney who continues into the room.

"What's ever the matter, sir?" The elderly man inquires.

"The object of your concern is not me." I reply. Without another word to be spoken, I rise and we both proceed to the foyer; the recalled direction of the haunting shriek. When we reach the grand entry doors, a moment is hesitated before any attempts to open the large, wooden barriers are to be made.

Rodney reaches for the doorknob and, grasping it, turns it so that the loud click of the mechanics on the knob echoes throughout the mansion. The hinges groan in desperate need of oil as the door is opened. There, lying in front of us, is the corps of a young man. His body is situated in an unnatural, twisted position. My stomach churns and I look away. Both Rodney and I know that no one can be reached at this hour of night, not even the mortuary, so the only decent thing to do is to place him in the conservatory. I have already placed the coffin which was to be mine on a table, there. How conveniently morbid I am.

"Rodney. Go and retrieve a sheet from the linen closet." I order.

"Yes, sir," he complies. When he has reentered the deep corridors of the mansion, I decide to further investigate the body. His right hand is fried; his hair is standing at all directions; and he has the overall smell of burned hair and cooked meat. In his left hand lies a charred calling card. I pry his burnt hand open and take the card. The only legible writing on it says, "Luis E. Furr." The young boy is apparently the servant of Mr. Furr. To-morrow, I shall have to call Mr. Furr and explain to him the events of this night. But for now, all I can do is ensure that the body has a proper place to rest.

It starts to rain before Rodney rejoins me. We wrap the body in the sheet and carry it by the corners to the conservatory. After placing the body in the casket and nailing the lid shut, we bid each other a good night and I return to the library to finish what I had started. Mr. Furr's servant can keep the coffin. I can always buy another casket.

The book is still on the table when I walk into the room. As I sit, I mentally score another death attributed to this property. The number is up to nine-hundred-ninety-six deceased persons. On the morrow, I will leave this place. I will move on. I shall not let this accursed house claim me also. But to-night, my one task shall be to make contact. There is a yearning in my soul. I must speak to my beloved once more.

At that, I pick up the tome and, cradling it in my hands as if it were some antique that would turn to dust if I held it wrong, I open it. The window to the starboard side of me bursts open. I quickly get up to shut it. While doing so, I notice the fog has entombed the graveyard and is rolling toward the house. I sit back down, book in hand, ready to recite whatever it reads.

There is some Latin words in fancy writing, but nothing I can be as so bold as to boast a knowledge of pronouncing such. I open to a random page, hoping that some ethereal force shall guide me. I open to page 969. It reads the same incantations that Madam Leota recites every night:

"Serpents and spiders, tail of a rat.

Call in the spirits wherever they're at.

Rap on a table, it's time to respond

Send us a message from somewhere beyond

Goblins and ghoulies from last Halloween

Awaken the spirits with your tambourine

Creepies and crawlies, toads in a pond

Let there be music from regions beyond

Wizards and witches, wherever you dwell

Give us a hint by ringing a bell."

Beneath it reads: "For the accumulation of spirits from around the world. Best used for those spirits you have not met. Warning: One may not know or be able to trust such specters that come through by means of this rhyme."

I am taken aback at such knowledge. The Madam has not been using the right incantation. This must be more than simply a mistake. But why would she do such a hideous undertaking. I am confused. My rage builds up to the point that I throw the collection of parchment against the book shelf with a cry of anguish. A though then occurs to me. I scramble to collect the book, which was now lying on the floor, next to the emptied bottle and hold it in my hands once again. Thoughts race through my mind, faster than I can collect, of what I am going to do instant, what I'm going to do delayed, and what I've already done. After I talk to Lillian, I will burn the house to the ground. No longer will it be able to claim the lives of those who enter it's walls.

I flip through the pages like a mad man. There must be such an enchantment in this large book. I find the page which was the cause of my search. On page 196, a spell to bring about the apparition of a loved one, makes itself known to me. The incantation, itself, is Latin which will make it a bit more difficult, but for love anything is possible. I set the book upon the table as I sit, once again, in the velvet chair.

"Nihil desperandum," I start the spell,

"Dum vivimus vivamus." A ghoulish shriek, I can hear.

"Palman qui meruit ferat." The fog enters, through the window and doors.

"Fortuna nulla fides frontis." The fog has now covered the floor. I hear footsteps from the deep corridors of the building.

"Amor Patrice." The footsteps are closer, I can hear frantic mumbling. The fog is churning in the center of the room. My heart races

"Esto perpetua." The doors burst open at the hands of Madame Leota. Her face is wild with fear. "What-?" she starts before the suit of armor, which was in the hall, collapses next to her, the heavy axe impaling her chest as it crashes to the floor. She stands at the entrance to the chamber, grasping for breath, with the look of shark terror never leaving her face as books start to fling off of the shelves. I can not stop, not now.

"Dilige amicos." The metal sheets of armor start to slide into the room, across the floor, to the center of the room. Leota has collapsed, thus, the medal pushes her along with it to the center vortex of fog. My heart beats much faster.

"Pro aris et focis." The psychic is now merely feet away from the center of the room. She has regained her consciousness enough to scream, "What are you doing! What have you done!" But I can not stop. I am either possessed, or mad, but I can not stop.

"Vox populi vox Dei." Madam Leota has been assimilated within the swirling vortex. A face is starting to appear. Along with the face appears a figure. It is hard to make out at first, but soon is recognizable as Lillian. She is desperately trying to say something, but I can not hear her. I must finish the spell to hear her. I do hear a faint voice, though, as if it were from so far off reach of the mansion. "Let me out of here!" The voice says. "What am I- let me out of here!" It is coming from the conservatory. It is coming from the coffin. The man was not dead. His pleadings echo through the chambers of the manor. I have sealed a living man inside a coffin.

"Eadem mutate resurgo." Rodney appears at the door. The gaining wind of the swirling fog nearly lifts the feeble man off of his feet. "Sir," he starts until, he too, distinguishes the figure of Lillian. He seems to see something that I do not, for he immediately tries to seize book from me. I am obsessed at this point, that my instant reaction is to take the bottle, still lying on the floor, and strike him over the head with it. He falls, unconscious, on the floor. Books still fling from their shelves.

"Novus ordo seclorum." I am a mad man. I have killed my only confidant in this world. The figure of Lillian is gesturing frantically; waving her arms hysterically. I wish I could hear what she is trying to say.

"Quam as vos." Rodney's body slowly glides toward Lillian. The room glows, not by candlelight, but by and ethereal glow. It is merely enough to read the words from the page. I stand up for the last two lines, for I want to be ready to rush to my beloved's side.

"Ego sum teres." Lillian is starting to fade. I must be taking to long with the spell. I must speak faster!

"Nos instituo nex gratia superstes." I have finished. Like a radio being turned on in the middle of a broadcast I hear Lillian, "-ot do this! No! It's against the laws of everything! You can not do this!" As if on cue, three shadow-like figures appear in the darkest corner of the room. They slowly creep forward. "They're here," Lillian exclaims in complete anguish. I am frozen with fear. Every hair on my neck, my arms, stand up. "Go!" Lillian crys, "Run! Now!" The figures have now outstretched one arm each. Coming closer. I turn and run out the library door. My heart beats so quick I believe I am skipping beats. I run as fast as possible. When I am about 30 feet from the library doors, I look back. The three figures are seen right outside the doors, arms still outreached. They are chanting. "Ego amo pullus." It sounds like Latin. I have no idea what it means. I take a left to enter another hall. There must be a way out of here. I am in the marrow of the house. I am almost at the end of this hall. It would be quicker if I went through the gallery instead of going around the halls. I look at my feet. The floor is covered in a thick layer of fog. Behind me, the three terrifying figures have entered this corridor. My fear leaps again at the site of them.

I open a door to my left, it is a sliding door which leads to the gallery. The octagonal room is dark at first, but the candles light themselves one by one. The portraits of my long deceased family members glare down at me. The door slams behind me. I am terrified. I must find the other door quickly. This cadaverous seems to have a sense of foreboding. I realize that it has no windows and, at the moment, no doors. I must find a way out! Fog seeps through the cracks of my entrance. Claustrophobia hits me hard as I panic. Then, I realize. I never finished the second floor roof; or rather the third floor. A rope dangles from the rafters. I chill runs down my spine as I hear the hellish shrieks of the three shadow-figures. I work quickly. I jump many times before being able to grab hold of the rope. I pull myself up.

I have reached the second floor. I am now at the same height as four portraits. Their disapproving stares stab my soul as I climb. The three wraiths are now outside the gallery door. They continue to chant. "Ego amo pullus."

I have reached the attic. The gallery is too wide for me to swing to either side. I am stuck on this rope. I refuse to go with them though. Like a mad man, I tie a knot to stand on. Using that, I free my hands to make a quick loop in the rope. I will not let them get to me. They have entered the room now and look up. In a mad attempt to take myself before they take me, I throw the crude noose over my head and let my self drop. The wraith's screams make my whole body shake. My last breaths are taken after the phantoms leave the floor, to me at such a rapid speed, no even the new Wright airplane can match them. The last thing I see alive is the haunting faces of the wraiths. The fleshless, boneless, wisps one can not even imagine in one's nightmares.

I have not found my way out. I have become bound to this house: cursed to wander these corridors for all eternity; never to be with my beloved; never to enter any form of Heaven. I am trapped here, in my own Hell.


	3. Epilogue

_The Haunted Palace_

_By Eddy Poe, 1839_

_In the greenest of our valleys  
By good angels tenanted,  
Once a fair and stately palace —   
Snow-white palace — reared its head.  
In the monarch thought's dominion —   
It stood there!  
Never Seraph spread his pinion  
Over fabric half so fair._

Banners yellow, glorious, golden,  
On its roof did float and flow —  
This — all this — was in the olden  
Time long ago —  
And every gentle air that dallied,  
In that sweet day,  
Along the rampart plumed and pallid,  
A winged odour went away.

All wanderers in that happy valley,   
Through two luminous windows saw  
Spirits moving musically  
To a lute's well tuned law,  
Round about a throne where sitting   
(Porphyrogene!)   
In state his glory well befitting,  
The sovereign of the realm was seen.

And all with pearl and ruby glowing  
Was the fair palace door ;  
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,  
And sparkling evermore,  
A troop of echoes, whose sweet duty  
Was but to sing  
In voices of surpassing beauty,  
The wit and wisdom of their king.

But evil things in robes of sorrow,  
Assailed the monarch's high estate!  
Ah, let us mourn — for never morrow   
Shall dawn upon him desolate!  
And round about his home the glory,   
That blushed and bloomed,  
Is but a dim-remembered story  
Of the old time entombed.

And travellers now within that valley,   
Through the red-litten windows, see  
Vast forms that move fantastically   
To a discordant melody;  
While, like a rapid ghastly river,  
Through the pale door;  
A hideous throng rush out forever,  
And laugh — but smile no more.


End file.
